


and the water creeps to my chest

by inkedintoincognito



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Tw: pedophilia, tw: past sexual abuse, tw: rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedintoincognito/pseuds/inkedintoincognito
Summary: He pushes himself up and turns to face whoever is in his apartment when, again, he’s thrown on the floor, this time on his back, his head thumping against the carpet. He blinks up at the person above him and-His heart leaps to his throat and then stops.The thought itself comes slowly, a tail to the fear that’s only increasing as the seconds tick by as eternities.(skip westcott)The thing above him leers, blood dripping from his nose, outlining sharp teeth in red and he says, “Been a while, huh, Einstein?”





	and the water creeps to my chest

**Author's Note:**

> just to reiterate: tw for rape, pedophilia, and violence
> 
> title from 'thistle and weeds' by mumford and sons

_He lay there, not moving, the weight on top of him so fucking heavy, he so frustratingly silent. The hand traveling up and down his side, stuttering over his chest, was destroying the rhythm he was trying to keep with his breathing, trapped here between him and the couch._

_He didn't know what to do._

_He didn't know what to do._

_He really didn’t know what to do._

* * *

 

 

He’s studying chemistry- not for a class, he cannot afford college (but he’s. Not. Bitter.)- when his both his spidey-sense and window explode. He doesn’t have time to stand, even, when suddenly he is on the floor, something pinning him down, and his mind bursts with a thousand thoughts as his arm is lurched painfully behind his back-

 

_shit_

_oh god_

_knows im spiderman_

_who the fuck_

_that hurts that hurts that hurts_

_webshooters away where’s_

_humanlike armor metal strong_

He twists violently to the side, trying to wrench himself free, when a hand slams into his cheek and then twists into his hair, pressing his face painfully into the dirty carpet.

“Hey, Pete,” a voice whispers in his ear.

For a moment his heart stutters and he freezes, but then he realizes he’s gotta be wrong, and throws his head back, cracking into the nose of whoever is behind him, wrapping his leg backwards around the guy’s waist- noting that it’s rock hard; either the guy is wearing armor or he _is_ metal- and flipping him away- way too heavy for armor, it’s got to be a metal man.

He pushes himself up and turns to face whoever is in his apartment when, again, he’s thrown on the floor, this time on his back, his head thumping against the carpet. He blinks up at the person above him and-

His heart leaps to his throat and then stops.

The thought itself comes slowly, a tail to the fear that’s only increasing as the seconds tick by as eternities.

 

_skip westcott_

The thing above him leers, blood dripping from his nose, outlining sharp teeth in red and he says, “Been a while, huh, Einstein?”

 

* * *

 

 

_And it’s a few months before Aunt May notices something is wrong; all the classic signs, and she’s a nurse and it takes a while but she knows when she sees him stuffing wet sheets into the washer after she’s already washed them twice herself, and he disappears right then and there, as soon as she asks, and he doesn’t remember anything until he’s back home later, with a red lollipop and a small teddy bear and a certificate for being brave from the woman at the police station._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not Skip exactly as he remembers him; his face is fatter, a third of it a dull silver, unmoving, unexpressive, twisting his grin into something even more monstrous. His hair is brown, now, not blond, and two of his teeth are missing, a large black gap near the front of his grin.

But his eyes.

If Peter is honest, he’s forgotten Skip’s eyes. And why shouldn’t he? He rarely made eye contact before things started, and he never made eye contact after.

But here, back under Skip, a hundred flashing pictures of Skip’s eyes- flickering by in different lighting, filled with different emotions, a mess of eyeseyeseyes- come back, morphing into the grotesque pair that fills his vision now. It doesn’t matter that one of his eyes is now a dull silver- the other eye, the one that is still human-

It hasn’t changed.

“Skip,” he gasps out, before he can think to come up with something witty, to come up with something that will show Skip that he’s not afraid, not anymore, that he’ll scream and shout and fight and stop it before anything happens.

He starts to maybe think of something.

But then Skip blows softly on his face and his jaw locks shut.

“Oh, good. You do remember,” he says. Peter can feel his heartbeat, back and faster than ever, in his ears, in his chest. Because Skip is heavier than ever, he’s still pinning Peter down; Peter, who has super-strength now, who should be able to flip him off of himself so easily.

But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Skip’s nose is swollen already, and there are drops of blood tracing the seam where metal meets flesh, dropping and falling onto Peter’s face. He tries to concentrate on that, but a is a sudden shock of pain in his arm draws more of his attention, and he glances down, looks at the fingernails- claws- digging into his flesh, through his hoodie and shirt, a burning starting up and only increasing as Skip tightens his hold.

The heavy pound of his heart is almost painful, now.

Skip smirks and rips up suddenly, and Peter’s dealt with worse pain, far worse pain, he doesn’t even feel the need to cry out but he does flinch violently, his limbs jerking, drawing a laugh from Skip.

“Been a while,” Skip hisses, and Peter swallows the sounds rising in his throat and clenches his eyes shut

            _just like then_

as Skip trails his hand up and over his shoulder, presses his claws against the soft skin under Peter’s chin.

“’Course, that’s ‘cause of you.” He says, and the alarm in the back of Peter’s head finally makes its way to commanding his muscles and he begins to thrash; not trying to throw Skip off of him- he couldn’t, he can’t- but trying to twist out, away, hurdle himself through the window and

_never return_

get on equal ground.

A sharp punch to his jaw and the clatter of his teeth has him seeing stars, but it isn’t until sharp fingers are wrapped around his chin and squeezing that he stops twisting, almost blinded by pain, he can feel his jaw _moving,_ bone grinding against other bone-

The pain is so obscene that he misses what Skip is saying, his voice a background of horrific static to the spots dancing in his vision. Tears are leaking out of Peter’s eyes, his face is screaming, his mouth rusty and sticky with blood, his throat clicking, gurgling with each breath and he’s beginning to choke on blood-

Skip grabs Peter’s hair and yanks it so Peter will look at him, and his jaw goes white-hot as Skip bares his teeth, sliding his tongue over the elongated canines. Skip’s words suddenly come in, loud and clear, his voice scratching violently against the insides of Peter’s head. “-I am, now. Jaguar. And steel. Pretty cool, huh?”

Peter chokes.

“I’d thank you, if I wasn’t still furious about the whole jail thing. But really,” he says, placing the hand that had been pressing down on his shoulder on Peter’s chest, bending his fingers suddenly, ripping through Peter’s shirt and skin and drawing blood, “I actually am still furious. You little-”

Peter’s hand rockets up, open, slapping onto Skip’s metal cheek, and he still doesn’t _super_ know how to intentionally control that stickiness in moments like this, but it works most of the time and it’s working now as he rips his arm to the side.

Skip howls as his head is pulled harshly to the left, and Peter throws his hand back the other way before pulling it back to the left again.

This time, though, Skip rolls in the direction Peter is pulling and Peter detaches his hand as soon as Skip is off of him. He’s on the ceiling before Skip can stand and throwing himself towards his bedroom, towards his webshooters, towards his window.

His spidey-sense shocks through him but this time he’s ready, flipping himself over and to the side just as Skip thrusts his claws into the ceiling where Peter had been. Drywall crumbles, his vision becoming slightly hazy for a second in the dust before the clarity of Skip ripping his way through the chalky air clears it up.

“What the _shit!”_

Heart still pounding, he leaps off the ceiling through the open door of his bedroom, whirling around and slamming his door shut.

Skip doesn’t even bother trying the knob, not that Peter had time to lock it. The door cracks as Skip throws himself against it, but Peter has already grabbed his webshooters and mask and is running towards the window.

He’s on the fire escape, shattered glass littering the ground around him and glittering in his hair, when the door splinters inwards, Skip tumbling to the floor, and he’s yanking his mask over his head and sliding on his webshooters, so thankful that he lost the Velcro design and made it more glove-like.

By the time Skip stands up, he has a web on the building next to them and is pulling himself upwards. He can hear his ragged breathing, even over the rush of wind in his ears.

He clamors up onto the building, falling onto the roof and quickly drawing himself into a crouch, looking back over his shoulder. Behind him, the metal of the fire escape creaks and he hears Skip shouting, but he cannot make out the words.

He watches as the man prepares to jump, and, before he can leap, Peter is off again, charging over the roof, throwing out another web. His head, so muddled before, is already starting to clear up; a faint plan- or, at least, the thought that he needs to begin forming a plan- tickling the back of his mind. He ignores the thoughts about Skip finding him, about the absurdity of the situation, about the impossible probability of Skip going through whatever he did to become whatever he is and finding Peter, of seeing Peter as Spider-man, of coming back from his nightmares to ruin this life, this time, too-

The crunch of Skip’s feet crushing into the roof he is about to pull himself off of sends his stomach plummeting. He yanks as hard as he can, sure that he can feel the claws scraping the air inches from his skin.

He’s not as graceful as he usually is, his landings sloppy and his webs too long or too short as he hurries between and over New York.

And he’s getting colder. It feels like his blood is turning to ice.

He’s being chased.

And the plan isn’t forming.

And the plan isn’t forming, because-

Because he doesn’t want to acknowledge that he has to deal with Skip. Not just get away from him. Actually _deal_ deal with him.

Skip knows who is he. Where he is. What he is, what he’s done. What he won’t do, what he could do.

But Spider-man doesn’t _deal_ deal with people. Not intentionally, not maliciously, not without fifteen murdered children or a slaughtered aunt. That’s a lot of what Spider-man is.

And Peter himself can’t _deal_ with people, period. Especially _him._

That’s- also a lot of what Peter is.

Skip is the type of person that could deal-deal with people.

Peter swallows thickly, listening to another skid, to another senseless shout from behind him.

He might have to _deal_ deal with someone.

 

He really doesn’t know what he is going to do. What he even could do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Everyone is saying it’s not his fault but this wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t such a fucking_ freak _, if he wasn’t so fucking scared of_ everything _, if he wasn’t so weak and_ pathetic _and_ quiet _and if he wasn’t such a goddamn outsider then he’d have friends and he’d have a voice and then it wouldn’t happen to him, and it’s so fucking awful because if it wasn’t happening to him it would happen to a different kid but god it_ hurts.

_He’s so fucking selfish._

_But he doesn’t want to be the one under Skip._

 

_And Peter Parker_

* * *

 

is still so fucking quiet _._

So what can he do?

            _okay. plan. plan, please._

He swings past a bank, sees himself out of the corner of his eye: a figure, flying by on a web, red mask bright even at this hour.

Spider-man.

Spider-man is loud.

That’s also who Spider-man is- no matter what the Avengers say, about how ‘pathetic it is to swing insults in a desperate attempt to distract villains from your’ blah, blah, blah... it’s almost as important as his webs, as his spidey-sense.

Spider-man is arrogant; Spider-man is powerful.

It hits him, as he rounds a corner, the wind whipping his jacket zipper against his back.

He- Spider-man will know what to do. He’ll figure it out. He’ll solve this.

He sucks in a deep breath as he throws a web at the next building, and allows himself a grin, ignoring the sharp ache in his jaw, feeling the fabric of his mask rub against his skin.

Spider-man _can do this_.

He attaches his next web to a library’s peak and pulls himself up, sticking to the roof, glancing back to find Skip several buildings behind him, still screaming things he cannot make out.

Tilting his head, cutting Skip off mid-shout, he calls out something- if he’s honest, he’s not even processing what he’s saying, something about Einstein finally working out, something stupid, but.

Something loosens in his chest. God, does it feel _good_ to taunt him.

Okay. So he’s doing this. Glancing around, he sees that he’s near the warehouse district. The perfect fighting place for Spider-man.

See? He’s not even realizing it, and he’s already setting up the ass-kicking of the century.

He’ll totally maim Skip.

(He’s kidding.)

Kind of.

(He’ll respectfully maim him.)

He laughs, a little more loudly than usual, and crawls up and over the pointed roof of the old library, limbs jittery for a different reason, fists suddenly itchy for more than just this tossing of web after web.

He tosses another web.

Veering sharply to the left, thankful that Skip has no long-range capabilities - _that he knows of_ \- he throws yet another web up and between two rooftop columns as he passes by. It won’t stop Skip, but it’ll at least let him know that Spider-man is ready to make things difficult.

He laughs, again, when, a few roofs down, he stops to watch Skip detangle himself from the thin webbing, then rushes back on his way towards the warehouses, trying to get a little bit of distance.

It doesn’t take long to get to where he wants to go- he travels more deeply into the deserted buildings, just in case the fight stretches further than anticipated, but once he hears Skip’s footsteps connect with the wooden planks that line the roofs of these buildings (for a reason Peter has yet to figure out,) he narrows in on one of the structures at random.

Before he jumps up onto the chimney he’s picked out, he rips off his jacket- open, too large, only a hindrance in a fight- and tosses it down into the alley.

It flutters- _strange-_ to the ground, and Peter yanks himself up onto the chimney, crouching at the top, the flesh on his arms goosefleshing as he watches Skip’s form bound over rooftops. The brief period of rest and break from the quick and sloppy plans he’s making allow Peter to finally hear what Skip’s been yelling this whole time.

“You think I didn’t fucking _know?_ ” His voice sounds exactly like it did when Peter was younger. “You think I didn’t know you’re fucking _Spider-man_?”

Peter considers making a joke- _at least i took him out last night_ \- but then figures it’s best not to make a sex joke while a pedophile/rapist/sadist is after him.

“I know every single thing about you!” he screams.

Okay, that’s a little creepy.

Skip is almost to him, only a building over, and he tenses, getting ready.

“ _PETE-_ “

Uh-oh. Well, if there was ever a reason to really start a fight, that’s it. Hopefully Skip hasn’t been shouting his real name this whole time.

Spider-man launches himself off of the chimney, throwing himself at Skip as he’s mid-way over the alleyway leading to the roof Peter’s chimney is on. They collide, Peter hissing through his teeth as his left hand connects with the metal on Skips body, Skip letting out a grunt as they crash backwards through the thin planks covering the collapsed wall of the warehouse. They roll, and Spider-man flips himself up as soon as he rolls over, attaching himself to the ceiling and shooting a web at Skip before he even manages to stop his own tumble.

It collides with his face, a sticky film that he immediately begins to tear at in an overdramatic whirl-around that tells Peter immediately that Skip doesn’t have nearly as much training as he worried he might.

His heart slows down a little bit, working now on adrenaline rather than fear.

“Aww, you’re just like a puppy with his tail!” he calls, his voice strong, comments bad as ever. Just as it should be.

He knows the webbing won’t come off. He knows that Skip’s hands should now be stuck to his face, too.

He laughs, dropping off the ceiling and shooting another web at Skip’s feet, halting his frantic spin-around, sending him into a slight stumble.

Why was he ever scared?

“There you go. Don’t want you getting dizzy, now-“

Skip rips off the webbing on his face.

Peter doesn’t have time to be surprised; he sends another web at Skip, but Skip bends back at an impossible speed, at an impossible angle, and dodges, one of his feet actually tearing through the webbing at his feet.

_Oh, fuck._

Solace in the fact that one foot is still locked-

Okay, solace in the fact that Spider-man is quick, that he has the loose foot strapped down again as Skip frees his second one.

Webs won’t work, then. A slight damper on his mood. And semi-kinda-formed-plan.

He manages to catch half of Skip’s face as he’s trying, again, to rip his foot free, and hopes that that will buy him some time. Peter rakes his brain, trying to remember what Skip said earlier.

He’s half steel. Okay. Not going to be able to find a good melting point easily here in New York. Magnets, maybe, those could work well. Yeah, Spider-man is strong, but Skip’s stronger, and he’s- free.

_fuck._

Spider-man leaps backwards as a clawed hand rips through the space where he was.

“Woah, now,” he mutters, and kicks out a leg, connecting with Skip’s stomach. It doesn’t knock the wind out of him or topple him over, but it does push him back a few paces, enough to allow Peter to get back onto the ceiling. Height advantage, that always helps. “Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, kids.” Skip lunges again, narrowly missing Peter’s side. “Not that you were ever good at that,” he mumbles, almost to himself, but then Skip hisses- actually _hisses_ \- and does something to his hands that elongate the claws.

_wolverine knock-off._

“Oh, should I not have said anything aloud?” Ignoring the lurking worry of Skip having even more treats like that hidden away, Spider-man whips out a short web to the opposite wall, yanking himself into flight. He twists, arching his foot through the air, managing to clip Skip’s temple before he has to spin the other way and flip himself in the opposite direction. Skip is still growling as he jumps again, trying to wrap his arms around Spider-man’s torso but Peter pushes himself backwards, flattening himself against a beam and managing to avoid Skip completely.

“Sore subject?” He says, pressing himself further into the ceiling to dodge another clawed hand. “I need to be more sensitive, I know, especially around pedo-“

_hooboy, that was close_

“-files. Gee, must have been hard in jail, huh? That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”

“Shut the _fuck up_ , you snitchy-“

Spider-man crawls along the beam, kicking away a hand and sending out a web that Skip, with even less effort than before, manages to rip off.

He doesn’t bother trying to get Skip with another web when dodging his next leap; other than the potential for some miracle magnet appearing, it’s looking like Spider-man will have to outwit Skip. Manageable. Probably. Take him into

 _a trap_ , _damn, if only he wasn’t so fast._

He skitters forward, towards the open door at the other end of the room where he can see the beginning of a metal path. _Maybe one of these warehouses will have some sort of pit, or a live wire-_

“PETER!” Skip roars, and Peter shudders but Spider-man pushes onwards, wrapping his fingers around the top of the doorjamb.

And that’s when a hand wraps around his ankle and yanks.

 

* * *

_Because even after it’s over, it’s still, always, there with him._

* * *

 

 

He hits the ground hard, the breath knocked out of his lungs.

Skip’s foot connects with his side, and if the breath hadn’t been knocked out of him before that would have done it. Instead it only snaps a rib.

 _Oh, well, thank god,_ he thinks, somehow managing to cough and suffocate at the same time. And then managing not to black out as Skip’s foot connects with his face.

Pain needles through him and he can’t even gasp, his chest spasming and he feels another kick to his side, this one cracking, against all logic, his back, a sharp note screaming up his spine. Lights are flashing in front of him, yellowgreenyellowgreen, and he suddenly remembers that he has to get some more deodorant before his current stick crumbles away completely. Or was it toothpaste he needed?

And then, in a pinch of red, his mask is ripped off.

Despite all of the flashing pain in his body, there’s a moment of complete silence before the panic sets back in, and he wants to scream but he can’t, it’s so fucking _stupid_ but he so afraid suddenly, more naked than he’s ever been even though he’s only lost his fucking _mask_.

Distracted, panicking like a fucking child, he doesn’t notice Skip’s hand wrapped around his wrist until he hears a crunching noise, feels metal and plastic tearing into his flesh. Feels bone crack.

His webshooter.

His wrist.

This is going south far too quickly. He needs to get back his mask. He needs to get back-

Still gasping for air, Peter thrusts his other hand blindly up at Skip’s face, and his fingers connect with the human eyeball. Skip jerks back and grabs at his face, and Peter’s stomach sinks even more at the sight of his mask, still clutched in Skip’s hand, pressed against his cheek.

            _not now._

He blinks, shaking his head, and crawls back through the door, stumbling to his feet and clutching his wrist to his ribs once he’s through, hoping desperately that the metal eye isn’t robotic, that it just doesn’t work, that he’s somehow managed to blind him.

The metal path beneath him is cold, and he takes a second to get his bearings, to shake the thought of toothpaste from his mind, to try to focus on a new plan.

He can swing over to the other side of the warehouse, but he can’t travel without two webslingers. And he can’t climb quickly enough with only one hand.

His ears are ringing, he has to blink several times to clear his head enough to think. He can’t remember what he was trying to forget, and that scares him.

His best bet is to hide. He needs to hide. Hunker down, heal, and figure out a plan.

Yeah. He can do that.

He needs time.

Peter grabs onto the railing with his good hand and leaps over, swinging himself around to the landing below, ignoring the spike of pain when his feet connect with the ground. This floor mirrors the one above: a narrow path with a twenty-foot drop on one side and a row of doors on the other.

_like a prison._

He notices for the first time that there is blood running down the side of his face and he tries to stop it as he darts down the path, slipping on the metal, glancing behind him every few steps to make sure he’s not leaving a trail of red.

He ducks into a room at random once he hears Skip’s feet connect with the metal path above him; but the panic rises even more in his chest- it’s not going to work, he’s only a few doors away from where he began, his body aching too much too go very fast.

But it’s all he has.

He looks around quickly, head spinning with the movement. It seems like he’s in an old break room, several chairs lined up in the corner and a table tipped on its side near the back. There are no windows.

The _THWANG_ of Skip leaping down a level is the loudest thing he’s ever heard.

He dives behind the table, grinding his teeth to keep from shouting when his injured wrist comes into contact with the floor.

“ _I’M GONNA_ -“

Peter isn’t processing the rest, crouching down further and pressing himself against the old wood, hoping that Skip will pass him by, that he’ll get a chance to think, to escape, but the footsteps are growing louder and it’s just now occurring to Peter that the cheetah or jaguar or whatever-the-fuck in Skip might be able to smell him, even if his other eye isn’t some high-tech robo machine with X-ray vision.

Everything hurts.

The footsteps are still approaching. Skip is walking slowly; each step ringing out against the metal. It is, Peter realizes with a wave of nausea, some sort of brag.

He knows where he is; he knows he’s not going anywhere.

For a second, Peter shuts down. An old defense mechanism that _isn’t ideal in this situation._

It takes too long to snap back. And when he does, he’s coming back to Skip’s head poking over the edge of the table, his eye bloody but focused, a manic grin on his face, laughter bubbling out from between his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

_It will never stop ruining him._

 

* * *

 

 

Peter throws himself to the side, scrambling to get to his feet, adrenaline and pain making his movements jerky.

Skip leaps over the table, slamming his knee into Peter's back before he can get more than a few feet. Peter falls to the floor, the wood beneath him rough and splintering through his shirt, needling the cuts Skip made earlier. He lets out a cry, but is silenced by a hand clamping over his mouth.

The thing above him is so big, so heavy, crushing his back and he is still below average height, way below average weight and that hadn’t matter in _so long_ because he was _strong_ but this was too much, and he _can’t breathe,_ he can’t _move,_ he’s exhausted and this shouldn’t petrify him, but it does, it does.

Peter’s reasoning collapses, thoughts jumbled in a way they have never been before; even earlier tonight, even when he was younger.

Skip splays one hand on Peter's back, the other snaked around to cover his mouth, the heat of Skip’s putrid flesh ripping through to his skin. Skip is _touching_ him, touching him _far too much._

* * *

 

_THERE IS AN ENTIRE_ SIN _SITTING ON TOP OF HIM, IT’S SO HEAVY, THE WEIGHT OF ALL OF THIS, THE PAIN OF ALL OF THIS._

 _AND GOD, IT’S SO GROTESQUELY LOUD, AND THAT, THERE, IS WHAT HE CLINGS TO- MAYBE IF HE IS STILL, SILENT, IF HE IS_ OPPOSITE _IN EVERY WAY HE CAN BE, IT WILL GO AWAY._

_if only he could stop crying._

* * *

 

 

Somehow, Peter's heart rate goes up even more; suddenly, he can’t move, no more because of physical weakness but because he is too- too-

Too afraid.

Too shocked.

Too passive.

“I knew it,” Skip hisses into his ear.

Like a rabbit sighted by a fox, his arms trembling, his body shaking, twitching, but even still he is not moving. Some absolutely idiotic instinct telling him that he’ll be safe if he’s still, if he’s silent. Peter, Peter, Peter, how can he disconnect like this-

“And here, again, Peter.” Distantly, Peter can make out the sound of something dripping. “Compliant.”

Just like then; wrong before, wrong now, he needs his mask, he needs to be Spider-man, who knew the mask would make such a difference-

“You want it again, don’t you? Yeah. You were always just so...” Skip makes a noise, some sort of grunt, as he jerks his hips.

Bile rises in his throat and he gags. Skip grabs his hair and pulls his head back at the sound, twisting and digging his knee further into Peter’s back so he could look at his face.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. Why the _fuck_ is he so silent, so meek, why is he letting this happen all over again.

_WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!_

“Wonder if you’ll make noise. You did when you were young.” He jerks his hips, again, and Peter chokes, again, and hears Westcott laugh. Feels his hand release his hair, slipping down his head to grasp his neck before sliding down, still, reaching over and under and lifting his torso and pressing against the center of his chest. His head pounds and his breath hitches, he is being touched _everywhere_ and he can’t do anything, _won’t_ do anything, his spidey-sense almost painful down his spine and his terror palpable in his throat. His hands, folding up over his chest, don’t even grab at the arm holding him. They curl up against him wherever the arm doesn’t touch, abandoning that place for dead, tainted, decayed. His broken wrist still throbbing but it’s so distant now. All his pain, in fact, so distant; it feels, strangely, like an abandonment- nothing to focus on but Skip.

_RUN RUN RUN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU_

“I’ve been picturing this for years.” Another whisper in his ear, a hand grasping his hipbone. The dripping in the other room stops.

Then, suddenly, Westcott flips himself, head-over-feet, bringing Peter with him and letting him go near the end of his rollover, sending Peter flying into the wall in front of them. Peter cracks into the wood and falls to the floor, and Skip- Skip Skip Skip skip skip skipskipskipskip- is on top of him again instantly, his body flush against him, pressing him into the baseboard, his arm trapped against his chest and under his side and his legs useless and he whites out for a second, his panic so raw and loud, this is worse because it is _just_ like-

“It’s no couch,” Skip mutters, “but it’ll do.”

A beat of nothing.

_DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING YOU PATHETIC FREAK_

And then.

“I- Skip, stop, ple-“

Before he can even finish, his self hatred rockets up to new levels-

 _WEAK WEAK WEAK WEAK PATHETIC_ and

“-ase,”

_MEEK MEEK FUCKING PATHETICYOUAREPATHETIC_

Skip laughs, bringing his face even closer and Peter twists his head, squeezing his eyes shut

           AGAIN

as Skip opens his mouth, letting his breath roll across Peter’s face, before dragging his tongue across Peter’s lips.

Something twists sharply inside of Peter, his mind screaming to jerk his head back but there was nowhere to _go_ -

“Oh, Peter.” Hot breath chapped lips his nose was poking his fucking eye- “Never.”

His insides turn to ice, his mind is gone, what can he do what can he _DO_.

Skip’s tongue leaves another trail of acid across his cheek, and he feels those claws, again, at his throat, digging into his flesh.

He wants to die.

There’s a whine building in the back of his throat and he thinks, for a moment, that maybe he can trick himself into believing he has the mask on and _do_ something-

Breath still burning the skin on his face, Skip’s hand grabs at his thigh, lava and iron and sin.

There’s a ripping noise, and-

And-

it’s-

not-

His brain stumbling, the whine slips out.

_YOU DESERVE THIS._

Every cell in his body is burning; shame, fear screaming through his bones, screeching across his skin, Skip’s face leering down at him from above.

_YOU DESERVE THIS._

A sob rips out from his throat when he feels Skip’s face bury itself into his neck

_it’s happening again again again agai_

_GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT PLEASE GET OUT_

“Stop, stop, I’m sorry, I’m-“

There’s a crunch and a crack and then in a flash of red he cannot see out of his right eye and he cannot breathe, a weight on his mouth and over his nose cutting off his words. Skip’s head moves into the black area where his right eye would have spotted him, his breath warming the ear on that side.

“Just the tears will do, thanks.”

Peter shudders and gags, vomit rising in his throat.

The pressure on his mouth is gone, then, and he twists his head to the side, choking, his lunch spilling out onto the floor next to him, bare chest heaving through the tattered remains of his shirt.

In full-sound-Technicolor-HD-Imax-grade screening, he wishes that he would die.

But then he stops thinking, again, because the Skip’s weight is suddenly dropping down on him completely, a hotness spreading on his neck, his face, and he lies there, choking on tears and stomach acid for an eternity-turned-second, because then the weight is gone, completely.

Gone, completely.

He doesn’t bother to look around, only dimly aware of the loud cracks and choking noises that suddenly start echoing through the room. He lies there, still, his mind blank.

Until.

_MOVE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!_

Oh.

He can.

Before he knows where he’s going, he’s sliding back, tripping over torn pants but unwilling to leave them. Feeling along the wall until he reaches the corner of the room and then, newfound adrenaline rushing his system, he’s slamming himself into the corner, smacking his hands into each wall and crawling upwards as fast as he can, his stomach rolling, his jaw, clenched and aching, a trail of vomit down the side of his face and his right eye throbbing painfully, his wrist screaming at being used but not loud enough for him to stop leaving.

It doesn’t help anything when his head collides sharply with the ceiling. He doesn’t fall, but he almost does, and the instinctual stomach-dropping panic that takes hold is enough of a break from his other panic so that his eye unblurs and the adrenaline starts to dissolves fast, immediately falling more than enough for him to feel in sudden clarity the ache in his chest, in his back; in his-

He almost slips down the wall, catching himself only by forcing one of his feet through the wood, one of his hands into the ceiling. A moment of agony before safety.

Or.

He looks, frantically, across the room, desperate to focus, to find Skip, to find a window, a means of escape.

Instead he finds someone else, staring up at him, and it’s too drastic of a change to digest- this Other, with an expressive but masked stare; the newfound silence, and the-

The body, lying beneath them, head severed, legs severed, more blood than Peter has ever seen pooling on the floor, a knife _and_ a sword sticking out of an eye and the crotch, respectively.

He tips his head forward and vomits again, throat and tongue burning harshly as stomach acid rises, his hand slipping from the ceiling the same time his foot does and he goes crashing down, smacking hard into the floor, narrowly missing the puddle of his own bile.

He wants to stay down, he wants to lie here and die, even now, but.

He pushes himself upwards slowly, loosely, and meets Deadpool’s stare.

Neither of them say anything. Surprising. For both of them, he thinks.

His eyes flick over to Skip’s body, the blood soaking into the feet of Deadpool’s suit, inching its way towards Peter.

He’s torn, unexpectedly, between laughing and crying, the faint reflection of Deadpool shimmering in the dark liquid, the stench almost enough to choke him.

He wishes he had his mask, so he could laugh.

But he doesn’t.

So he starts to cry.

Loud, chest heaving sobs, his breath hitching and stuttering with his snapped ribs.

“Shit,” he hears.

Peter tries to stop crying, he really does. But it’s too much. It’s everything crashing down- the fight, what happened, the body, the pain. He can’t remember whether or not he remembered before ( _stupid_ ), but he remembers now, and he remembers _now_ , and he wishes that he had just let himself slip away completely when he had been behind the table.

But he didn’t. He didn’t.

He draws his knees up and buries his head in his hands, muffling his sobs, hiding his face. He had never felt this lost, even as a child.

He has never hated himself this much, either.

Minutes pass before he finally, _finally_ gains control of himself again. He waits another minute after he goes quiet, desperately hoping that Deadpool has left, but when he raises his head he’s crouched a little ways away, only close enough to block Peter’s view of the body.

They stare at each other, and Peter finds himself desperately wishing, again, for his mask. The implications of Deadpool knowing his identity have not caught up with him yet, but the age-old anxiety of _anyone_ knowing who he is begins to gnaw at him.

He just can’t catch a break tonight.

He breaks the stare, looking at the wall, and only then does Deadpool speak.

“You, uh. Want me to take you to the hospital?”

Not an option. Even if he wasn’t mutated. He just. Couldn’t go. Not now.

Peter shakes his head, turning his gaze back to Deadpool. He’s about to ask Deadpool to please go get his mask when the other man plows ahead.

“You sure? I know it’s weird going with super powers or whatever- what do you have anyway? Got to that ceiling super-quick like- but I mean, you should probably go get....” He sighs. “Tested for stuff. File a report. Not that he’ll be bothering you ever again! I promise!” Before Peter can blink, Deadpool has a knife in his hand- pulled from where, he can only guess- and is whipping it, hard, blind, over his shoulder.

A wet thud tells Peter more than he thinks he can stomach. There is nothing left in his stomach, though; his gagging leading nowhere.

“And let your parents know. Get to seeing a crazy doc- er, therapist, and all that fun shit.” He looks at Peter, waiting for a response.

Peter shakes his head again. Deadpool’s stare sharpens, and Peter looks back towards the wall.

He really, really wants his mask.

“Listen, it’s hard, but I really, really think-“

“No,” he says. His voice is hoarse. Then, more quietly: “Sorry.” He’s not sure whether he’s apologizing for cutting Deadpool off or for refusing the aid he’s being offered. Either way, though, the regret pooling in his stomach, sour and acrid, is riling itself up.

Deadpool sighs. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to either. Not that therapy would help my-“ he cuts himself off. “Hmm. Not really the time for self-deprecation, is it.” He phrases it like a statement, and then tilts his head to the side, as though listening to something. “Sure as shit, but even I’m not gonna leave someone who was just-” he cuts himself off, visibly turns his focus back to Peter.

“Listen, kid, you didn’t get the catharsis of legitimately ripping that flaming shit of vomit to pieces, and-“

“Deadpool, stop, please-“ he chokes there, for a second, then forces himself on. “I’m not going.”

“Oooh! Sweet, you know me. I was worried you weren’t freaking out over a masked stranger slicing some guts because you had gone-” He twirls his finger around next to his temple and whistles, then freezes. “Er, oops. Fuck. Sorry.”

“I’d probably know you more if I had gone crazy,” Peters mutters, then leans his head back against the wall, noticing, for the first time, that he is- _still?_ \- shaking. Badly.

Again, silence fills the room, only to be broken by Deadpool’s muttering.

“Yeah, a little rude. Whatever though. He went through a lot.” He pauses. “Well, next time suggest that sooner. Fuck, that’s a damn good idea. DD, or Spidey-“

Peter jerks his head up. “Spidey?”

Deadpool blinks- how Peter knows he blinks, he has no clue- at him. “Yeah, you know, Spider-man? Friendly, lives in a neighborhood? He’d probably better at this comforting-“

“You-“ Peter stops, unsure of how to proceed. Deadpool cuts in, though, kindly.

“Know Spider-man? Yeah. Yup. We’re buds, even. Teaming up and talking on rooftops and stealing hot dogs and shit.” He pauses. “Well. I steal hot dogs and then he goes back and pays for them, like some kind of idiot.”

Peter is only half-listening. His mask, gone. No suit. A lot of supers can get to the ceiling.

Deadpool doesn’t know who he is.

But-

Before he can stop himself, he holds up his hand, staring at it. His webshooter, the one that isn’t in pieces on the floor above them, rests comfortably against his wrist.

“What’s-“

He looks up, and Deadpool is staring, almost comically pointedly, at his webshooter.

Motherfuc-

“Oh, shit,” Deadpool says, his voice the quietest that Peter has ever heard. “Oh, shit.“

Peter crushes his hand to his chest and averts his eyes as Deadpool looks up at him.

“Spidey…?”

He doesn’t nod.

But he also doesn’t shake his head.

And that, apparently, is enough for Deadpool.

“ _THAT MOTHERFUCKER!”_ He roars, suddenly, his voice bouncing off the walls. Peter flinches, and Deadpool is on his feet, a knife in each hand, one more already in Skip’s body. “ _THAT SLIMY, PIECE OF SHIT SCUMOFTHEEARTH!”_

A thud, identical to the one earlier, followed by another. Like some sort of sick heartbeat. Peter’s thoughts, starting to whirl again, matching the frantic rhythm of the knives, ricochet through his head.

 _thud._ Skip found him.

Skip ruined him. Again.

 _thud._ Skip is dead.

Deadpool knows what happened.

 _thud._ Deadpool saw him cry.

Deadpool knows who he is.

He doesn’t have his mask and he’s feeling too many emotions and there is a body being filled with knives and a pool of blood in front of him, and has the metallic smell always been so poisonous?

His chest heaves, the flurry of movement in front of him too much, the face and name connection too much. The humiliation, the shame, it’s not anonymous, now, bleeding even into Peter’s other life.

He tries really, really hard not to cry again.

Deadpool pulls out a gun, aims. Fires. Peter flinches at the noise; and again, at the following shot.

There are a lot of shots.

He should stop that. The violence. The noise is too loud, the body is already... a body.

There’s no point.

Peter wants his mask. He can tell Deadpool this if he has his mask.

Should there have been a point?

_he’s dead. he’s extra dead. that’s the point._

When Deadpool turns around, finally, seven clips and loads of knives lighter, Peter is standing, ignoring the pain radiating through his body, leaning against the wall.

“I- I need my mask,” he says.

Deadpool is breathing heavily. “Okie-dokie. Where is it?”

Peter shrugs. He can feel his throat closing up again. “I don’t know. He took it.”

For a moment, it looks like Deadpool is going to empty another round into Skip’s body. Instead, he holds his breath for a second, then lets it out in a heavy sigh. “Hopefully I didn’t just swiss-cheese your spider-face.”

“I think it’s up.”

“Up?”

“Upstairs. That’s where he took it.”

Deadpool spins on his heel, foot slicking through the blood, now a lake beneath him, and begins marching towards the door.

“Let’s go get it, Spidey,” he says.

Peter stumbles a little, sticking close to the wall as he walks around the blood, around the body. He tries not to look, but of course he does, and of course that image- Skip’s body, sliced and diced and riddled with knives and dark black holes and shallow dents and absolutely _covered_ in blood- burns itself into his mind. He can feel the sear, as though it were a physical thing, as though it were actually tattooing itself into his brain.

He jerks his head away and hurries to the doorway.

Deadpool is already pulling himself up onto the next floor, using the railing as a foothold and the thin metal of the ground above them to pull himself up. Peter glances around for some stairs, his limbs growing heavy at the sight of them halfway across the warehouse. He actually takes a few steps towards them before he remembers the webslinger still attached to his wrist.

Thank god.

Leaning out over the railing, he attaches a web to the ceiling and pulls, rising, grabbing onto the railing with his feet as he passes and balancing for a moment before letting himself drop to the side.

The ground ahead of him is dented; Skip’s footsteps, he realizes, actually bent the metal.

He pushes forward despite the sudden dizziness, heading for the room the fight began in.

Deadpool has already passed it. He doesn’t know where he’s going, it’s clear, but he’s looking at the floor, glancing into the rooms. He isn’t saying anything. The only noises Peter can make out right now are his own breathing and the faint _tings_ from the metal when he steps.

He’s thankful for the silence, surreal as everything is. A goal, his mask- things he can latch onto. Anything more, any touch or sound or need to process would be overwhelming; while at the same time, anything less would send him careening over into some pit that he’s not familiar with.

_yet._

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he gets his mask, but that’s for Spider-man to figure out.

He ducks into the room, spotting the mask almost instantly, tossed into the corner closest to the door. A wave of relief washes through him- whether it’s this relief or leftover adrenaline from earlier that highlights the tremors in his hands, he’s not sure. And he really doesn’t care, not now.

He snatches it up and yanks it on, twisting it awkwardly since he only has the use of one hand but eventually it falls into place as it should.

There.

He-

He _has_ to feel better right now. He has to.

He shuts his eyes, concentrates on the feeling of his eyelids against cool plastic, of his cheeks and ears against the stretchy spandex.

Okay. It’s sort of working now. He’ll have to make it work more, but right now he needs to gather himself and figure out what to do.

First-

He aims his webs at his pants, gluing them shut, and then does the same for his shirt. Filthy, sloppy patchwork, but it settles something inside of him.

He needs fix his wrist, next. Splint it, before it heals wrong.

He backs out of the room, walking a few paces past it before shouting after Deadpool.

“Found it!” He calls, and the mercenary turns and throws him a thumbs-up. Peter jogs, half-heartedly and stumbling, over to him. “It was back there,” Peter says as he gets closer. “In the corner.”

Deadpool nods, but Peter can see- again, he wonders, how- his brows furrowing. Before he can talk, Peter barges on, knowing whatever Deadpool is about to say, it will be Wrong For Him.

So he talks on. As is Spider-man’s way.

“I’m so glad I got it back. It’s so hard to make these things. Sewing and all that is easy until you have curves to patch up, you know?”

“Spi-“

“Like when something tears in your elbow? God, just kill me. Ammi’right?

And you’ve got it even worse. I can’t even imagine having to shove a needle through leather.”

“Spider-“

Peter laughs, high-pitched. “Anyways, I need to find a stick, or something. There’s a broken table in one of these rooms, I can use a leg as a-“

“Spider-man.“

“-brace. Not sure if you noticed, but my wrist is a little broken!” He winces. Why is he screeching? Also, why is his wrist suddenly on fire?

Oh. Because he’s flapping it in front of Deadpool’s face.

Why is he flapping his broken wrist?

“Hey!” Deadpool barks. “Stop!” He reaches out, but the wrist is snatched back, cradled against Peter’s chest before he can grab it. Peter takes a jerky step backwards, and Deadpool holds up his hands in a surrender gesture. “Sorry. Look, though: you need help.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m fine! I’ve set bones before. It’s all in the One-Two-Three-Gotcha!-I-Pulled-On-Two split setup. I can show you. Here, let’s go get some wood, and then I’ll show you. I’ll show you, and then we’ll be on our merry ways.” He stops, his stomach dropping suddenly. “I mean, I guess I have to deal with the body, huh?”

Deadpool shakes his head violently. “No, no, that’s- I’ll do that.” He does the head-tilt again, and then scoffs.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles.

Deadpool sighs, heavily. “No, that was at- Nevermind.“ He crosses his arms over his chest. “I think-“

“I’m gonna go home.” Peter says, wincing slightly at Deadpool’s glare. He needs to stop interrupting him.

Tomorrow, he’ll stop.

“Thanks for… coming along when you did.” He takes a step back, and Deadpool is already scowling beneath his mask.

“You’re not gonna go home like this! God, even I know that it’s not cool for you to be by yourself right now.”

“No, it’ll be fine, really. I’ll just go to my… apartment…“ he trails off, nausea suddenly squeezing his throat. His apartment. With the broken windows and the ruined ceiling and the carpet where Skip stood, where Skip held him down.

“Or, head over to. Um.“ Shit, he should not have tried to correct himself. Where else was he gonna go? It was getting hard to breathe beneath his mask. His aunt’s house was out. At least for the next week. He couldn’t go there. And all his friends were heroes with secret identities, secret homes.

“…McDonald’s?”

He could go back to his apartment, in the morning. When he was ready, when it was daylight.

“McDonald’s,” Deadpool says, his voice flat.

“Yeah. Get some fries. A frappe. Did you know that’s trademarked to McDonald’s? Like, ‘frappe’ as a product. I knew someone in high school who worked at Starbucks and got mad when-“

“You’re not going to spend the night at McDonald’s after you just got-“

“Stop!”

“-raped, Spidey!” Deadpool hisses. Peter bites back the embarrassing sound rising in his throat. “That’s just not right.”

Peter swallows, his mouth dry, and pinches the skin above the break in his wrist

He still can’t see out of his one eye, he realizes.

Deadpool crosses his arms, looking down at him.

He’s caught in between so many places right now. Standing in a ghost-like purgatory where he can see everything; fuzzy, yes, and distant, but he can still see it, and it’s so _fucking frustrating_ because he cannot influence it. He’s been put here and he cannot get out. And he wants, more than anything, to step to one side, to be in one place, to stake claim to one normalcy.

He’s Spider-man right now. He should be able to get out.

But he can’t.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Okay. I’ll go home, okay? I’ll go home. Sleep. And… wait on top of the McDonald’s tomorrow. And you can buy me a frappe and fries. Because you’re being kind of mean to me right now and that can be your apology.”

            _chocolate chip frappe will be good icansurviveforthat_

“I’m not- you need to redefine ‘mean’ in your dictionary, babe, because I’m being the logical one here, right now. Finally. These are _your_ shoes I’m filling.”

            _ICANSURVIVEFORTHAT_

            _yeah._

Peter forces himself to focus back in.

“I’m usually mean?”

“No. You’re usually- whatever. Whatever. I’m still gonna buy you fries and a coffee-“

“Frappe.”

“-but I’m also going to either come spend the night with you, get DD to spend the night with you, or sit outside of your window _with_ the blind Jackie Chan so we can keep an eye on you. And no, it’s not going to be creepy, but it will be ki- um. Fuck. God, clean humor is hard.”

“Only if you’re not funny.”

“Fuck you.”

“Skip already did.” And that, there, is when he goes from fuck-up to fucked-up. He knows this because Deadpool goes completely silent. For, like, a minute. And Peter can’t think of how to save himself, so he shuts his mouth and starts to hum.

Finally, Deadpool speaks. “That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard. And I once heard my parents having sex.”

Peter shrugs, looks away. “I should get going,” he says in response. “Long way home.”

Deadpool shakes his head irritably. “Look, you gotta pick an option or I’m gonna choose for you. And there’s a fourth option I didn’t say aloud, but you’re gonna hate it even if it’s good for you, and that’s the one I’d choose, so.” He spreads his hands. “Choose.”

Peter- Spider-man- closes his eyes and doesn’t cry.

“No Daredevil,” he says. He almost can’t hear his voice.

Deadpool claps his hands, causing Peter to jump. “Sweet! Okay, let’s head out. I can close my eyes if you want, I trust you not to lead me into any potholes or back alleys or knives-“

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Let’s just go, please.”

Deadpool nods, spins, and leaps over the railing. The metal rings loudly as he lands on the floor below.

Peter covers the urge to cry again with a cough and fights the overwhelming desire to just sink to the floor. His body aches, his mind is shuttering, and this is all so-

He rips off his mask.

It wasn’t helping anyways.

Deadpool doesn’t say anything about the lack of mask when Peter lowers himself down on a web next to him; just gestures towards the door and then begins to hum that song from _Peter Pan_ as they start walking.

The world tilts every once in a while on the walk, and he realizes a few blocks into it that he’s limping, lurching rather violently to the left, but Deadpool doesn’t offer to help and Peter doesn’t ask for it, despite the consistent ache all over his body; the scorch marks on his thighs, on his face, between his legs. The sirens in his wrist.

Every once in a while, Deadpool will seem to hum more loudly, more aggressively. It’s almost like clockwork at first, but happens more often the further they are into the walk.

Neither look at the other, and no one they pass, in this neighborhood, makes eye contact.

Deadpool stops humming when Peter comes to a halt below the fire escape that leads to his apartment. (Thank god. Peter was not above adding ‘sharp objects in ears’ to his list of injuries.) As Peter looks at the front of the alley to make sure no one is there, Deadpool lets out a quick laugh and murmurs to himself, “And you said I couldn’t do it. That’s what you get. Fucker.”

The coast is clear, and Peter leaps up and grabs onto the lowest rung, pulling himself up onto the platform, thankful, as he cradles his still-aching wrist to his chest, that the escape is more stair than ladder.

Deadpool follows him up, making surprisingly little noise on the metal as they climb five flights of rickety stairs.

Peter’s heart accelerates, his stomach twisting with dread, as he climbs onto the landing outside his window, littered, still, with broken glass.

He wants to pause. But that’s wouldn’t look good. Even though he can see the shards of wood scattered across the bedroom floor. Even though he can picture the shattered glass in the living room, the holes in his ceiling, in his walls.

He wonders if the landlord has been by. (He hopes to god not. He hopes to god it’s silent; no one came in, no one saw the obvious signs of struggle, realized that Peter was not there. That no one called the cops.)

Deadpool clears his throat.

Oops. He actually paused. Stupid.

He stumbles through the window. Glass nicks him, but he only notices because Deadpool grabs the sleeve of his shirt, points to the freshly bleeding wounds, and tells him to go fix himself up with some Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Or some whiskey and a shot, he says, and laughs, and that’s how Peter leaves him, disappearing into the bathroom.

He’s glad he has an excuse to put off going into the living room.

He puts it off for an entire hour, scrubbing himself raw in the shower. The water at his feet stays tinged pink the entire time, the washcloth reopening his cuts every time it passes over them. He doesn’t even notice how badly his wrist hurts until the water suddenly drops temperature and he leaps out, shocked out of whatever frenzy he was in.

Stuffing his torn clothing into the wastebasket, he pulls on something clean, untorn, unstained. His skin hurts where the fabric touches him, too sensitive from the abuse in the shower, but it’s a good kind of pain, he decides, and throws on another, tighter layer under the sweatshirt he’s put on.

When he walks back into his bedroom, he notices that the window has been covered with cardboard and a trashbag, and the debris has been cleared away.

Something in his stomach unknots itself.

He glances into the living room, and cannot explain the wave of relief that hits him when he sees that it has been cleaned up, too.

He steps out of his room. The windows here received the same treatment as the ones in his bedroom. The apartment is cold, the night air having long since stolen every ounce of warmth the radiators provided, but the clicking of the small radiator in the corner tells him it won’t be cold for long.

The holes in the wall, in the ceiling, are covered with white sheets of paper.

He has to admit, that’s pretty clever. He almost missed them, the empty white of the walls matching almost perfectly with the printer paper.

Peter pointedly does not look at the space where Skip held him down.

Instead, he glances over to where Deadpool is sitting at his desk, literally twiddling his thumbs. He had been talking, Peter realized, but he shut up as soon as Peter entered. They stare at each other for a moment.

“So,” Deadpool says, abruptly. “You hungry?”

Peter pauses for a moment.

Everything feels kind of surreal. The relief he felt at first is beginning to ping-pong with nausea, with dread, with detachment.

He likes detachment best.

So Peter shakes his head.

            _what’s the polite thing to do when you’ve been-_

Deadpool sighs. “Okay, well, I don’t know why I asked, because I’m not usually polite and you’re gonna eat something.”

            _and you have a guest-_

Peter’s throat clicks as he talks. “My card is in the wallet on the countertop. Get whatever you want. I’m gonna go to bed, I think.”

            _who also killed the guy-_

“Counteroffer. What if I ordered, you stay here to make sure I don’t then call a bunch of shopping network numbers to order a bunch of extra pizzazzy shit for my flat, and then you ate whatever comes and _then_ go to bed?”

_why didn’t anyone teach me the etiquette for this situation_

“I. Really, really want to go to bed now.”

“And I really, really want a NutriBullet.”

“The card won’t go through.”

“I’ll go credit.”

“I’ll report it stolen.”

“I’ll kill the guy you report it stolen to.”

Peter snorts. Deadpool leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I will.”

“I know you’re-“

“Spidey, if it’s between some random guy’s life and getting you to eat right now, I’d gladly rope him to the ceiling and gut him before he could suffocate. In fact, I might even head for his family and filet them, too.”

Peter can feel the color drain from his face.

He’s joking.

Surely.

“You’re not that-“ Peter can’t think of a word. Evil? Kill-happy? Insane?

“Oh, I am _that_ ,“ Deadpool spreads his hands. “Whatever you were gonna say.”

“That’s- that’s really unfair.”

Deadpool shrugs. “Life’s like that, you know? So. What do you want?”

The thought of food isn’t making him sick. But it’s not making him hungry, either.

Other thoughts _are_ making him sick, though. And he doesn’t want to have to think them. And witty banter with Deadpool all night won’t be enough to stave them off.

“Unconsciousness. Oblivion.”

“Hey! Me too! But I also want pizza, so… Italian? The Italians are usually open late. Timezones and passionate pasta loving and all.”

Peter closes his eyes. He doesn’t nod until Deadpool sighs, loudly.

He doesn’t sit for another second. Deadpool leaps up and makes his way towards his wallet, and as soon as he is out of the room Peter lurches over to the sofa, fitting himself into the right side, resting his head against the arm. Maybe he can sleep and drift away just for a moment. Relief for a second.

He stares at the wall.

Everything is quiet. He cannot even hear Deadpool rifling through his wallet, despite his super-hearing.

A minute or so passes. He wants to sleep, but he doesn’t want to, he realizes, have to close his eyes.

The pressure in his head builds up. His body is tense, and he can feel the loud ghosts of a fight behind him, the howling of shame inside of him.

            _make it stop make it stop let it have been a nightmare_ please

God, he hates being illogical like this.

He hates not knowing what to do, too.

And he really doesn’t. Know what to do. Everything is so- there are so many options, so many outcomes, so much to repress, or deal with, or bury, or acknowledge.

_a sniveling, shivering coward, all along._

_a surviving, thriving hero, despite._

_a-_

In the background, he can hear the mutterings of a phone call about spaghetti.


End file.
